


Isn't It (R/r)omantic?

by daphnerunning



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-07-27 07:39:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16214507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daphnerunning/pseuds/daphnerunning
Summary: In his doorway stands a shivering, bedraggled lump of a person, dripping from the nose, blond hair plastered in limp tendrils to his face, escaping a hasty braid that was clearly constructed several hours, possibly days earlier. Jehan looks like the picture of bodily misery, but his face his cheerful, if a little damp. Startled, Combeferre looks behind him and out the window at the pounding sleet. Surely it had been sunny when he’d started reading. Well,Perioperative Two-Dimensional Transesophageal Echocardiography: A Practical Handbookis nothing if not immersive. “Jehan, you look like a stray kitten. Come in.”





	Isn't It (R/r)omantic?

Isn’t It R(r)omantic?

 

 

 

“Courfeyrac.”

 

“Mm?”

 

“You know Combeferre, yeah?”

 

“For several years, better than I want to.”

 

“Have you ever noticed anything…you know…” Jehan looks hopelessly at him for a moment, wobbling one hand in the sort of noncommittal-yet-entirely-certain-of-its-noncommittal-status gesture he’d used when he’d asked if Jehan was sure he was a dude the first time he’d worn a skirt to class.

 

“All the time,” he assures the younger man, because he thinks he’s funny, even if Jehan neither laughs nor gets the joke. Honestly, undergrads take everything so _seriously._

 

“So you’ve noticed it, too?” Jehan’s eyes light up. Courfeyrac is used to that line as a metaphor, but with this odd, flighty, capital-R-Romantic kid, they actually seem to, brightening in his face when they open wider. “He’s as old as you, right?”

 

“He’s as positively ancient as me, yes.” Courfeyrac can hardly believe that his plan is _working_. Admittedly, it’s not much of a plan, more of a _sit back and watch these two idiots figure things out at long last_ , but after his last plan, he’s a little…plan-shy. It had sounded like a good idea at the time, he’s fond of telling Joly. Also, there’s the promise.

 

“But he’s in Early British Lit with me.”

 

“Mm, yeah, he mentioned it to me. He’s fond of Marie du France, I believe. Well, not _fond_ , but he likes complaining about _Lanval_.”

 

Jehan fiddles with the cup in his hands, which Courfeyrac believes holds tea that has long since gone cold. Jehan takes the occasional sip, and doesn’t seem to notice. “He’s in my Magic, Medicine, and Science in Ancient Times class, too.”

 

“Be fair, that’s way more his subject than it is yours.”

 

“And my Evolution of Life in the Cosmos class. And my Body-Mind Literacy class. And my Aesthetics and Politics of Cultural Appropriation class. And my Ethical Theory of Gendered Biomechanics class.”

 

Courfeyrac frowns, head tilting slightly to the side. “Combeferre aside, your course load sounds wild. Are those really all offered in your department?”

 

“And he’s in _all_ of them,” Jehan persists, ignoring Courfeyrac’s protests. “So, I thought, well, obviously, he’s slacking off on his medical degree and wants to take some classes that are more interesting than cardiology or whatever.”

 

Courfeyrac privately thinks that, given how enthusiastically Combeferre had been telling him about his immunodeficiency pathogen course, that sounds unlikely, but he dutifully nods. “Yeah? Um…suspicious.”

 

“So, I have a theory.”

 

_Don’t lean forward. Don’t grab the arm of your chair._ _Be cool, grab a cookie. “_ Yeah?”

 

Jehan swallows. His eyes flick side to side. _He’s in love. My work here is done._ He leans in close, and whispers, “I think he’s developed time travel. Oh, you dropped your cookie.”

 

“Time, time travel you say?” Courfeyrac deserves an actual medal for the fact that his voice doesn’t come out a shriek. Or that he didn’t hurl the cookie right into the face of this sweet, determined idiot. “That’s certainly…a conclusion, Jehan.”

 

“You don’t believe me.” Jehan doesn’t look deterred in the slightest. Courfeyrac didn’t expect him to. “Seriously, he must be taking over 30 credit hours, I’m going to find out _how_ , and then you’re going to see.”

 

“You really think he’d invent time travel just to go to class? I’d invent it to sleep.”

 

“It’s _Combeferre_.”

 

Courfeyrac pauses, then acknowledges, “Your point, at least in that much, is made. He’s a nerd. But—“

 

“You don’t believe me,” Jehan repeats, as if in disbelief that Courfeyrac would refuse to acknowledge his obvious brilliance in this matter. He stands, still muttering to himself, “Doesn’t believe me, incredible,” and walks vaguely out of Courfeyrac’s apartment. That much isn’t too surprising. Jehan often drifts in and out of his place, as if whatever tethers other men to physical locations through social contract and platitude has no effect on him.

 

Courfeyrac’s hand itches to pick up his phone. Combeferre would find this funny, in a charming, “Oh, Jehan…” kind of way, and Combeferre has always been the one friend Courfeyrac can rely on to actually understand things and how funny they are, even if he doesn’t always agree with how they came to be. Enjolras is worse than useless, for humor, and many of the others laugh too loudly and too often for Courfeyrac to be sure they’ve really appreciated his wit.

 

Unfortunately, Combeferre is the one person he can’t tell about this, under pain of oathbreaking. Not to Jehan, but to Combeferre himself, as he is under strict promise to never, _never_ try to set Combeferre up with anyone, ever again. He’s gotten better at holding his tongue than a Golden Retriever at holding an egg in its mouth—gently, delicately, so as not to crush the feelings of two overly-sensitive idiots.

 

Instead, he fires off a text, just one (ignoring three **u up? ;)** texts he leaves on read).

 

**To: Feuilly**

**He took the bait.**

 

Courfeyrac should probably be concerned, he thinks mildly, that he’s more interested in watching the Great Time Travel Debacle play out than in answering any of his messages from Sophie. (Sheila? Shelly, that’s it, Jehan liked her name.)

 

~

 

Investigating, Jehan decides, may be difficult, but is certainly worthwhile.

 

He’d always thought of Combeferre as a pretty sweet person. He’s always right in time with a joke or a citation, a perfect complement to his best friend and semi-professional marble statue of a roommate. This current new evidence, that he is clearly part of some cabal of secret operatives bent on learning every piece of information on planet earth to assist in…well, he hasn’t really gotten that far yet, but there are several possibilities. Combeferre could be an alien (awesome, but unlikely, given his multi-year friendship and apparent “parents”). Combeferre could be in the CIA (less cool and kind of fascist, but still intriguing). Combeferre could be pulling a Hermione, of course, and only using his powers-and/or-machine (Jehan hasn’t decided which) to simply attend All of the Classes. This is the most likely theory, and one that fits with Combeferre’s whole bookish vibe, but a good investigator never rules out any theories. He thinks. It’s his first time being one.

 

(Unless one were to count The Curious Case of the Disappearing Tunafish Cans. He’d proudly solved that one, a true mystery, since Courfeyrac always bought tunafish at the store, but publicly professed dislike. Bahorel had dismissed him! He’d insisted that Courfeyrac must just be eating it in secret, but Jehan had camped out, quite literally in a small pup tent, in the alleyway behind Courfeyrac and Marius’s apartment for nine very rainy hours, only getting distracted a little bit, before he solved the mystery. Courfeyrac fed stray cats. That was a good day.)

 

The secret to any good investigation, he’d learned, is observation. Constant, unrelenting observation, if possible. Fortunately, Combeferre is in all of his classes. Jehan takes the time to watch him, really watch him, and jots down his notes.

 

_Day One_

 

_8:18. Aesthetics and Politics of Cultural Appropriation. C seems wide awake and alert and listening to the professor. EVIDENCE: he was drinking with Joly and Bossuet last night until 11pm, and it takes half an hour to get from their place to his. Unless he took an Uber, I guess? Then it would only be like 10 minutes. But I guess you have to count the time he spent waiting for the car. I wonder if he’s a big tipper. I heard he wakes up at dawn, though? Till with ominous hum our hive at daybreak pour’d out its myriads…_

 

_9:31. Fell asleep. C woke me up. Hope he didn’t see this journal._

 

_11:31. C is humming a song and it won’t get out of my head but I can’t figure out what it is? CONCLUSION: it must not be popular yet. — > TIME TRAVEL._

 

_11:48. Early British Lit. C is insisting that Marie du France’s Lanval is the inspiration for the 1939 song Rudolph the Red-Nosed—wait i just realized what he was humming. Scratch previous note. NEW EVIDENCE: how would he know what inspired Robert Lewis May if he wasn’t there?_

 

_12:45. Lunch. C sits next to Enjolras. He looks happy. No evidence. There’s peach cobbler, though, so that’s pretty good. Wait, aren’t peaches out of season? I wonder if they’re grown south of the equator this time of year?_

 

_12:55. Peaches are canned. I asked the lunch l_ _ady_ _server. Joly is taking selfies of his tongue. Says he’s got shingles. C says it’s not shingles, that if J goes to the doctor he’ll confirm. HOW DOES HE KNOW? — > EVIDENCE._

 

_2:45. Lab courses suck, this is not evidence. just bored. C isn’t in this class. makes it boring. Every street is packed with sad-looking perverts._

 

_Note to self: borrow C’s notes about class this morning i forgot to take any._

 

_Note: ask the nice girl with the undercut where she got her hat. can’t remember what class._

 

_4:30. C walked me home. I am_ _clever_ _and pretended to fall down and twist my ankle so he would help me. I read online that having any kind of mutant power makes you ripped even if it’s invisibility? not sure how canon. took my shot. C is definitely way more muscular than I thought. Guess Heaven is a tomb that hides his life and shows not half his parts. Ooh. that was gayer than intended. But he’s definitely inciting a poet’s rage! So it’s accurate._

 

_Day Two_

 

_8:15. I’m so tired how does he do this? C was up until_

 

_Note: had to put journal away, got called on._

 

_Day Four_

 

_oops I’m still bad at keeping journals. I’ll do better._

 

_11:20. Magic Medicine and Science in Ancient times. This class is so cool. C is correcting the teacher on his pronunciation of Chinese herbs. EVIDENCE: i think he’s only 25 but he def. speaks at least 2 other languages?_

 

_11:26. I guess I speak or read 5 so maybe this isn’t direct evidence but Chinese is really hard. EVIDENCE._

 

_12:45. Lunch. Bossuet has a cold. I told C that I was amazed he had time to learn Chinese. He told me Peach Bloom Lake is a thousand feet deep. idk what that means. He told me I will someday. EVIDENCE???_

 

_Day 8_

 

_oops. but this journal is really pretty so i’m going to try harder._

 

_it’s cold today. my collar is mounting firmly to the chin. C is wearing a really soft red sweater. Cashmere? I want it. I want to touch it. He keeps letting me. This is my careful plan to discover if he is secretly ripped._

 

_10:45pm. im drunk. his sweater is so sof._

 

_Day 19_

 

_oops i had to count backwards on a calendar to figure out how long it’s been. Attached is a unicorn sticker Bahorel gave me. He thought I’d like it. He was right. It will remind me to be vigilant!_

 

_In class today C told our discussion group that we should call the police on the government, if they truly work for us. I tried it on my cell phone. Proof that the system is broken._

 

_Day 24_

 

_R had the gooooood stuff. C doesn’t smoke. It’s cute._

 

_He’s cute._

 

_wonder if anyone has ever done to him what spring does to the cherry blossoms. am i seeing him pre- or post- spring? his blossoms._

 

_Day 25_

 

_8:19. AesPol. C looks tired. How the fuck can we be sitting in class when there are kids dying in the streets? I’m not midway upon the journey of my life yet but god!!!!! God!!! the straightforward pathway has been lost. Bad day. Really bad day._

 

_I can’t sleep._

 

_Day 33_

 

_I think I’ve got it._

 

_−_ ℏ _22md2dx2Ψ(x)+V(x)Ψ(x)=EΨ(x)or_

 

_d2dx2Ψ(x)=2m_ ℏ _2(V(x)−E)Ψ(x)_ ≡ _2m_ ℏ _2M(x)Ψ(x),_

 

_Ψ(x)≈Cei∫dx2m_ ℏ _2(E−V(x))√+θ2m_ ℏ _2(E−V(x))‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾√4_

 

_Day 34_

 

_Planck’s constant is balls!! Blow me!!_

 

_Day whatever_

 

_I forgot to make plans to go home for Fall break. Guess I’m staying in the dorms. I hope they don’t turn off the lights this time._

 

~

 

 

A knock on the door makes Combeferre jump. It’s a very soft, almost timid knock, but he’s engrossed in his book to the point of shutting out the rest of the world. Another knock following, slightly less timid, makes him think that he may have missed a few before the one that finally startled him out of his reading.

 

He uncurls from his comfortably understuffed armchair, then opens the door, wincing a little as his knees creak. That seems to be a perk of grad school, as they certainly hadn’t done that when he was nineteen.

 

In his doorway stands a shivering, bedraggled lump of a person, dripping from the nose, blond hair plastered in limp tendrils to his face, escaping a hasty braid that was clearly constructed several hours, possibly days earlier. Jehan looks like the picture of bodily misery, but his face his cheerful, if a little damp. Startled, Combeferre looks behind him and out the window at the pounding sleet. Surely it had been sunny when he’d started reading. Well, _Perioperative Two-Dimensional Transesophageal Echocardiography: A Practical Handbook_ is nothing if not immersive. “Jehan, you look like a stray kitten. Come in.”

 

“Th-they didn’t turn off the lights this time, at least.” Jehan’s teeth chatter a little, even as Combeferre shuts the door behind him, tugging him over to a tacky love seat they’d inherited from the apartment’s previous owner. “B-b-but they f-forgot to leave the h-h-heat on.”

 

“Why didn’t you call a cab?”

 

Jehan shrugs a shoulder in a noncommittal movement that either says he didn’t want to, didn’t see the reason to, never thought of it, or despises cabs as a concept on this particular day. “Mm, fair enough. Here, warm up, I’ll make some tea.” He dumps a blanket onto Jehan’s shoulders, flips the electric kettle on, and goes about searching his room for something to wear. “My stuff is probably a little long, but...you wear a small, right? I’m mostly in medium.”

 

Jehan mumbles something from deep inside the blanket.

 

“What?”

 

“Red sweater. Soft.”

 

Heat creeps up the back of Combeferre’s neck, and he glares at himself in the mirror, annoyed. _Stop it, pervert. He’s just cold._ _And too young for you, he’s barely out of high school._

 

He grabs the red sweater from where it had paused, hanging in limbo from the moment he’d intended to take it to the laundry, then heard dinner boiling over and had thrown it over a chair in a mad haste. “It’s not clean,” he calls. “I only wore it once, but--“

 

“Gimme.”

 

“So eloquent,” Combeferre teases, chucking the sweater at the lump in his living room that is his young friend. “Truly, the poet among us.”

 

Jehan mutters something that Combeferre is mildly sure is Hebrew, squirming up until at least the tip of his red nose is showing. “The frogs,” he says softly.

 

“The what? Mm, black tea or herbal?”

 

Jehan wriggles out of the blanket, just enough to writhe into the red sweater, then dives back down again. “It was sunny earlier,” he explains, voice soft and plaintive. “Then all of of a sudden, the sky just opened up, you know? And I heard this frog outside the window. Frogs are amphibious, right? So they should be fine in wet or dry weather, but the frogs back home don’t-- I think he was climbing a tree. He was all--what’s the Rosetti? Lumpish, and harmless? And he was out on a branch, and kept making his ribbits louder and louder, and I went to go get him down, but the ledge was slippery, and I couldn’t remember if the frogs up here are as amphibious as the ones down home, I never hear them as much as I did down there, so I...”

 

Combeferre makes herbal tea, since he doubts Jehan needs any caffeine right now, and listens. He catches a few weak, then finally non-rhotics, and thinks of ascribing them to Jehan’s blueish lips. But even after Jehan’s curled up around a cup of tea, cheeks pinkening up, blond strands starting to curl up from his loose braid in static frizzion (stronger than static electricity, but only with regards to hair, a phrase he’s making up in the moment, watching it happen), he catches a broken vowel, _cat_ becoming _kæjət_ , turning vowels loose to elise over each other, a diphthong between unvoiced consonants becoming an unexpected monopthong, _rise_ turning to _ɹa:d_ , the world realigning itself.

 

At some point, he realizes he’s answered his own question a hundred phonemes ago, but still he strains to hear, letting morphic resonance claim a victim, as Jehan slips further and further into a soft drawl.

 

“...and by that time, I saw I was on your street, and your lights were still on, I could see them from the street, you’re just four floors up and three in from the left, so I...showed up.”

 

Combeferre, quite smoothly, loses track of what an appropriate response would be, having not expected Jehan’s story to come to an end. “Atlanta?” he says instead, curling up on the other end of the love seat, legs tucked underneath himself. “Sorry to interrupt, but your accent is coming out.”

 

Not all of Jehan is dry. Combeferre watches a droplet of water make its way from Jehan’s hairline down his forehead, slipping to the side on the supraorbital ridge, landing in the soft hair curling in front of his ear, too light and non-deliberately sculpted to be truly called a sideburn.

 

“Mm. Suppose so.” Jehan reflects for a moment, and Combeferre turns up the brightness of his lamp, some foolish thing with too many bulbs that he and Enjolras had “liberated” from a student who had made the twin mistakes of racially charged comments about the welfare class, followed by not leaving his room locked. Enjolras had wanted to take the door. Combeferre had wanted to leave a strongly-worded note. Courfeyrac had simply taken the lamp, declared it reparations, and after offering it to a few students and being refused as it was “very ugly,” the spindly thing had wound up a permanent feature in his apartment.

 

“Oh! The tea.”Combeferre uncurls, and retrieves two fine matching teacups, each three-quarters filled with chamomile. “You always spill a drink on the third and seventh steps after you pick it up, did you know that?”

 

Jehan cocks his head, just his nose peeking out of the blanket. “Does knowing that help you not spill the tea?”

 

Combeferre grins. “It hasn’t yet. But I learned it once, and now I think of it every time I spill a drink on my fingers.” He sets both cups down, his own fingers just a little smarting and wet, onto the coffee table. “It’s not Shen Nong’s salvation, but I know how you get with too much caffeine.”

 

“Chamomile is worse. Chamomile makes me fall asleep.”

 

“That’s worse than interrupting class because you had a list of thirty-three ideas you made that you couldn’t wait to express to everyone all at once?” Combeferre teases. “This just seems more...you.”

 

“Me? How?”

 

Combeferre opens his mouth, realizes that what he was about to say was kind of sappy, has no idea what to replace it with, and says it anyway. “Because I like the idea that flowers are reincarnated to give you dreams.”

 

Jehan stares at him.

 

_Whoops. Too much for the poet, I think._ “Chamomile,” Combeferre says lamely, taking a hasty, too-hot drink from his own cup. “It’s a flower. And it makes you sleepy. But obviously it isn’t alive when you drink it, it’s repurposed, well, flower corpses I suppose, but if they’re given new meaning in death and put to a use they aren’t able to accomplish in life, like being dried and having medicinal properties, that’s...sort of like reincarnation? Listen, I didn’t explain that well.”

 

“I can’t believe you buried the lede,” Jehan mutters, staring down at his cup now with fascination. “ _Repurposed flower corpses._ Wait, do they put the whole plant in?”

 

“Ah, I think it’s just the flower portion, the stems aren’t--“

 

“Repurposed _beheaded_ flower corpses.” Jehan’s eyes shine. “That’s awfully _sturm und drang_ , don’t you think?”

 

“Verging on the ecclesiastical,” Combeferre assures him. “And don’t worry, they’re humble, folksy flowers that grow as weeds, elevated to the highest ranks of medicine.”

 

“Like you.”

 

Combeferre laughs, startled into it, and Jehan blushes. “I suppose, though I’d have to imagine myself more _Matricaria chamomilla_ than _Chamamelum nobile_.”

 

“ _Comberferrus nobile_ ,” Jehan suggests. “My tea’s father is a carpenter.”

 

“Contractor,” Combeferre corrects mildly, with a smile and an arched eyebrow. “Carpenter sounds a bit too deliberately salt-of-the-earth, don’t you think? I’ll get gleefully ecclesiastical about anything except my own family.”

 

“Wouldn’t that be salt of the heavens?”

 

“Methinks,” Combeferre says, sipping his tea, “that milord fantasizes about having salt-of-the-earth parents.”

 

“Mm, if they’re going to have a salt-of-the-heavens belief system, the least they could do is give me an appropriately humble backstory to match,” Jehan agrees. “Ah, we didn’t toast.”

 

“It’s not alcohol.”

 

“I don’t think tea is any less the water of life,” Jehan insists, and holds out one of Enjolras’s grandmother’s finest teacups stubbornly. “Cheers me.”

 

Porcelain meets porcelain with a satisfying clink. Jehan looks satisfied, until another random thought flits across the meadows of his mind. “Why is it called China? Mm, I bet it used to be imported from China, but it can’t be anymore, can it? What do they call it in China?”

 

“Mm, I think the generalized _cíqì_ , that’s porcelain, but obviously they’d call it pots, cups, plates, along those lines.” This is far more comfortable than talking about himself. Combeferre can talk about imports and etymology all day, as long as the conversation stays away from anything too personal. No, wait, he’s talking about plates, that’s really boring to normal people, right? Combeferre wishes he had time to text Courfeyrac, it would _hardly_ be the first time his friend had gotten a text begging to know if a topic is interesting to most people or just him, and also, is this how you flirt, please? “The Chinese invented porcelain long before it was ever manufactured in the West,” he continues, voice faltering a little, unable to stop himself. “They were making sort of a proto-porcelain almost four thousand years ago. Oh, you know that internet debate about whether it’s better to put milk in first, or tea in first? It turns out, that’s actually classist--I know, like most things, but this one dates back to--“

 

“Four thousand years,” Jehan mutters to himself, obviously distracted. “That’s way further than I thought you could go.”

 

“Mm?”

 

Jehan looks up, as if startled that Combeferre is still there, in the same chair he’d been sitting in, two whole seconds later. “Oh,” he says, looking as shifty as if he’d been caught in an embarrassing situation. “I mean, your interest.”

 

“Ah...” Combeferre shrugs a shoulder, trying to ignore the suspicion that Jehan is hiding something from him. “Well, it’s not my primary area of expertise, but I’d rather not have a true primary of expertise, if I can help it.” He studies Jehan, lost in thought, for another minute before finally saying, “If you’re going to stay, you might as well take off your wet things completely. I’ll pop them in the dryer.”

 

Jehan blinks. “Stay?”

 

“Your heat is off?” Combeferre reminds him, standing and collecting the empty cups. “It’s supposed to be below freezing this weekend, I had to bring all the plants in.”

 

“You mean...with you? In your b-bed?”

 

Combeferre very nearly drops the cups on the way back to the sink. Grateful that he’s facing away from Jehan while those mental images course over him, he takes a very important second to breathe before answering, hoping his voice sounds vaguely normal. “Enjolras is in D.C. with his family.”

 

“Oh.” Jehan shifts in his seat, something unreadable in his eyes. At least, it would be unreadable to anyone who didn’t grow up with Enjolras, often mitigating the distance between him and those citizens less pure of purpose, less intensely true than himself. Combeferre has spent nearly two decades doing exactly that, and knows the look of a young man hesitant to say he’s nervous.

 

The apartment isn’t huge, no more than ten steps between the kitchen and the door to Combeferre’s bedroom, which he opens with a little nod. “You can stay in mine. I’ll take his.”

 

“W-what? But--wouldn’t it make more sense, I mean, for you to be in your own?”

 

Combeferre smiles, and gives him a knowing look. “I know he can be intimidating to people who don’t know him that well. Seriously, you’d probably prefer his room, it has much nicer sheets, but I promise I wash mine regularly.”

 

For some reason, that makes Jehan turn a rather fetching shade of beet, and the boy scrambles to his feet, shaking his head. “No, I mean, sure, that’s fine. That’s, I mean, very generous of you. You’re sure he won’t mind?”

 

“He’s never minded me sleeping in his bed before,” Combeferre says honestly, and hears the words coming out of his mouth too late, as Jehan turns a shade paler, eyes gone wide. “I mean--wait, no, don’t get the wrong--“

 

Jehan raises his hands, palms out, looking drawn and tired, a little pained. “Don’t worry, I didn’t think anything.” And then, because he’s a poet and therefore braver than Combeferre could ever be, he continues, “Actually, I think a lot of things. Are you two...”

 

Combeferre swallows, and wonders how he’d managed to swallow a stone along with air. “Are we...?” _A couple? Sleeping together?_ It’s a question he’s answered a hundred times, each time swallowing another heavy stone to pool in his stomach with the others.

 

“In love,” Jehan finishes, as if it’s the most natural question in the world.

 

It takes too long for Combeferre to answer. Any easy answer would have been fast. Anyone else would have taken his pause for confirmation, but Jehan simply waits, staring up at him with limpid blue eyes that hold so many words. The stone settles in Combeferre’s stomach, heavier than most he’s swallowed in the past. “No,” he says, and then, because his heart is hurting and he feels an odd surge of desire to be entirely honest, adds, “He’s not.”

 

He has time to see a flicker of understanding, and intends to turn away before it can turn into pity, but Jehan is faster, moving unexpectedly to hug him suddenly around the waist, squeezing tighter than his slender frame looks capable of, nose buried in Combeferre’s chest. Stunned, Combeferre just lets it happen for a moment, startled by the warm weight of Jehan, the surprising weight and solidity of him, the way his arms naturally want to curl and _hold_ , drawn upward by what he can only imagine is string theory.

 

“Sorry,” Jehan says against his shoulder, then releases him, and every part he’d touched feels suddenly cold as soon as his body is gone. “You just looked so sad. And I wanted to...I wanted to.”

 

Combeferre stares at him, unhappy to have discovered something about himself, and turns to go into Enjolras’s room, closing the door behind him.

 

The familiar scent of Enjolras--clean linen, fresh bergamot, and a dash of expensive cologne despite the fact that Combeferre had never seen him use any--surrounds him, and this time, it’s no comfort when he falls into that familiar bed, face buried in the pillow that’s two shades firmer than he likes himself.

 

The problem with string theory, of course, is that when strings are pulled, something unexpected can unravel.

 

~

 

Combeferre’s composure lasts until the next morning, when he leaves Enjolras’s room and bumps into Jehan just leaving the bathroom, wearing a pair of brightly-striped leggings and nothing else. He steps back, blushing slightly, but doesn’t try to duck away or demur, instead grinning up at Combeferre. “I figured you’d be up soon. Mind if I make tea?”

 

Combeferre waves a hand in vague affirmation, then dashes into the bathroom, only emerging a few minutes later to lock himself in Enjolras’s room and hurriedly dial Courfeyrac’s number.

 

The voice on the other end of the line is drowsy. “I need friends who aren’t early risers,” Courfeyrac yawns into the phone. “What, what’s up?”

 

Combeferre curls up on Enjolras’s bed, duvet pulled over his head to muffle the sound further than thin doors and walls already do. “I have a half-naked poet in my bed,” he hisses, hearing a totally unreasonable edge of panic in his voice.

 

“Shit, already? Mazel tov!”

 

“What do you mean, already? I’m in Enjolras’s room, he’s staying for fall break.”

 

The pause is too long. Combeferre isn’t as patient with them as Jehan is. “Courfeyrac,” he says, voice tinged with absolute danger, “did you break a vow?”

 

“I did not! I swear it! I _should have_ , but I didn’t!”

 

“What do you mean, you should have?”

 

There’s an exasperated huff from Courfeyrac, then a murmured, “I’ll be right back, don’t go anywhere,” clearly not meant for the receiver. A moment later, there’s the faint sound of a door closing, and then, “I didn’t say anything because I promised, but I’m not matchmaking if I just say you two would be really cute together, right?”

 

“It’s...a dangerous and blurry line,” Combeferre mutters, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand. “He’s a kid.”

 

“No offense meant, but from what I’ve heard, he’s not exactly purpling his nail in the blood of innocence.”

 

Combeferre hangs up.

 

Ten seconds later, he picks up when his phone beeps. “I’m not apologizing for hanging up on you. You know the rule. No Donne.”

 

“It was an apt metaphor and I stand by it, though I acknowledge your right to hang up on me.”

 

“Excellent. That’s sorted.”

 

“But seriously. You know he’s not a virgin, right?”

 

“That’s a really slut-shaming way to judge someone’s experience, you know. And you know I have somewhat higher standards for wanting to date someone than that...ugh, Herrick is just as bad, I need a metaphor that’s less _carpe diem_.”

 

“Of course you do. You never _carpe diem_.”

 

“That’s--that’s totally unfair!”

 

“How about _carpe poeta?_ Go seize him.”

 

“Gross, and kind of heteronormative, actually.” Combeferre toys with the hem of his own shirt, turning over recent events. “Are you saying he has a crush on me?”

 

Courfeyrac’s voice is gentle. Combeferre hates that. It’s always gentle at the worst of times, at _his_ worst of times. “I’m saying,” he says, as patiently as if talking to a toddler, “that you smile more when you talk about him. And I like seeing you happy. Also,” he continues, voice more brisk, “that you’re an idiot, because you already know you have a thing for him, or you wouldn’t have signed up for literally all of his classes.”

 

“I--that was coincidence,” Combeferre lies.

 

“Absolutely false! I witnessed you take a picture of his schedule with your phone right before you signed up for classes!”

 

Combeferre rubs his forehead, grumbling, “You’re not in court. Don’t flog me as a hostile witness. His classes all looked interesting, that’s all.”

 

“And how many courses are you taking?”

 

“...What, like it’s uncommon for me to take a lot of credits?”

 

“You’re in fifteen credits of electives! On top of medical school!”

 

“Maybe I just hate sleep!” Combeferre snaps. Then a thought occurs to him, and he freezes. “Wait. Has Jehan noticed?”

 

Courfeyrac is silent.

 

“Courfeyrac. Speak.”

 

“Can’t. Don’t want to be an oathbreaker.”

 

Combeferre hangs up on him again for being totally unhelpful, then sends a quick text message so he knows it wasn’t a random disconnection or a mistaken Donne reference.

 

**To: Courfeyrac**

**That was deliberate. You were being unhelpful. I have to think.**

 

He considers going back to his own room to change, but what if Jehan opens the door and is wearing even less? He’s not a saint. It’s probably much weirder that he tugs on some of Enjolras’s too-broad clothes, but they all get mixed up in the laundry anyway.

 

**To: Combeferre**

**No, you think all the time. You need to get LAID. Which you do not do all the time.**

 

Combeferre ignores that as also unhelpful, since it’s the same advice Courfeyrac gives him 90% of the time for any given situation. Combeferre notes quite pointedly that Courfeyrac’s advice had been a bit one-sided. _Go for it, you like him. Go on, you deserve to be happy._ That was what had gotten him into trouble last time, wasn’t it? All his own protestations, that Enjolras had never shown interest, had never dated _anyone_ , had never shown a desire to behave like either a bird or a bee, had been easy to overlook when Courfeyrac had seemed so cheerfully certain, but it wasn’t Courfeyrac who’d walked into that implacable wall, nor had to live with the consequences.

 

It hadn’t been Courfeyrac’s fault. He’d just wanted to see his two oldest friends happy together. In hindsight, Combeferre isn’t sure whether it would have been better to go on dreaming that someday, someday Enjolras might come around, but it had at least been hope, and without Courfeyrac’s urging, he never would have seen that confused, taken aback, and slightly pitying look on that beloved face.

 

The point of the oath was so Combeferre never, ever had to see that look on someone’s face again.

 

Jehan is cute. Jehan is smart. Jehan is clever and sweet and insouciantly curious about life and all of its mad components, and honestly, Jehan is lovely, and not nearly so young as Combeferre keeps protesting to keep himself in line. It’s far less, he admits to himself, the six-year difference between them, and far more the fear of not wanting to see that look on another man’s face.

 

Having settled that, secure in his cowardice, Combeferre tucks his phone into Enjolras’s pants and heads out to face a pretty poet making him tea, mentally girded for battle.

 

~

 

“Just so I understand the problem right,” Bahorel says slowly, facing down a miserable-looking Jehan over a pint of beer, “you’re saying you want to hook up with Combeferre. And you’re sleeping in his bed. And you think he wants you.”

 

Jehan stares at him, and slowly shakes his head. “Wow. Every single conjecture you just made was absolutely wrong.”

 

Bahorel looks sideways at Feuilly, scribbling furiously at makeup homework, even at the bar. “Can you translate from poet to English?”

 

Feuilly’s pencil stills for a moment. He frowns at Jehan, then says, “No,” and returns to scribbling. “I missed five days of class this semester for my third job, fall break is sent from heaven and I’m not wasting it on Jehan’s Lovesick Drama Hour.”

 

“Three hours,” Bahorel mutters, finishing his pint and sliding the empty glass over to join a few friends. “Jehan, seriously. Why not just, you know?”

 

Jehan blinks at him.

 

Bahorel sighs. “You’re good at getting what you want, don’t play dumb with me. I saw you start an orgy at Blowachella last summer.”

 

“The name was so bad,” Jehan says wistfully. “But the drugs were so good.”

 

“So? What’s the problem?”

 

“Exactly!”

 

“I’m getting from your tone that you think you’re explaining yourself?”

 

Jehan’s dreamy smile turns into a sulky pout. “He’s different. It’s got to be different. Maybe he doesn’t like poets who start orgies at Blowachella.”

 

“You’re sleeping in his bed.”

 

“You know, you keep saying that, but if this was one of my poems, he’d be in there with me! Ugh, I’m too much,” Jehan moans, and thunks his head down onto the table. “Courfeyrac was right. He’s probably not a time traveler.”

 

There’s a long pause at the table, and Feuilly sets down his pencil, pushing back his chair and heading straight for the bar. He returns a minute later with three more beers, and shakes his head. “Somehow, I still don’t feel like this is going to be enough. Jehan, please, my poet-to-English dictionary is rusty. Time travel?”

 

Jehan sinks down into Combeferre’s soft red sweater, which he has absolutely stolen. “Just a theory. I guess.”

 

“Based on?”

 

“He’s in all of my classes.” Jehan looks between the two of them, and infers correctly that some elaboration is required. “But he’s in a totally different major, right? You know. So he must be...time...traveling.”

 

For some reason, saying it aloud to Feuilly and Bahorel makes it sound a lot sillier than when he’d brought it up to Courfeyrac. “Besides,” he says hastily, because he can’t stand to see those looks on their faces any longer, “he likes muscley blonds that talk about revolution and spend fall break in D.C. and smell like Earl Grey.”

 

Bahorel rolls his eyes. “Doesn’t everyone have a thing for Enjolras? Isn’t that a baseline level of the universe or something? I swear Grantaire came up with a theorum about it Friday night.”

 

“He postulated,” Feuilly corrects. “But he couldn’t find some missing variable, so it remained untested. And I think he pissed it out along with the tequila in the bushes.”

 

“Oh, was that the night he got arrested?”

 

“No, you’re thinking of Thursday, Friday he only got a ticket, apparently he knew the cop. The guy even gave him money for half the ticket.”

 

This devolves into a long, increasingly drunken denunciation of the ruling class, and Jehan keeps the rest of his theories about the nature of the universe, and Combeferre’s red sweater, to himself.

 

Besides, he can’t miss an opportunity to start a brawl, even in leggings.

 

~

 

“It’s not Socialist to say that Universal Basic Income is the simplest way to assure a base standard of living for everyone, without radical redistribution of wealth. Don’t get me wrong, I’d gladly identify as Socialist if it meant universal healthcare for everyone, raising the standard of living, and ensuring that every child was entitled to adequate food, housing, and education--raise your knee for me a bit? See, this is what I mean. You shouldn’t have to subsidize your own insurance just because you have a family. If you’re risking your life in service, shouldn’t that life be protected?”

 

Combeferre’s patient shakes his head slowly, and rotates his ankle. “Dunno if what you say makes any sense, but the ankle feels a lot better. Thanks, Doc.”

 

Combeferre stood from where he was kneeling, brushing off his trousers. “Sure. Ah, I think Officer Colton was next? With the skin complaint? Thank you, an orderly line makes this much easier. Remember, write and call your representatives, tell them you put your lives on the line and you deserve better treatment, we all do.”

 

“Combeferre! You Combeferre?”

 

Combeferre looks up to see one of the officers outside his cell coming closer, a ring of keys in his hand. He smiles at the cop still sitting in front of him, and offers him a hand up. “Sorry. I think my ride is here. Come see me at Lakeview Memorial, I’m on call Tuesday through Friday.”

 

The cop grimaces, tugging his pant leg back down. “I work weekdays.”

 

“Anyone there can do what I did,” Combeferre assures him. “Better, even, I’m still in school. Seriously, don’t wait, you’re on your feet all day. Even a small issue can turn into a big problem if you let it go unchecked. Talk to Teresa in billing, she’ll help you out.”

 

“Thanks, man.” The cop clapped him on the shoulder, just before the other officer comes to unlock the cell. Behind him, brimming with energy and righteous indignation, and sporting an oversized t-shirt that boldly proclaims **#ACAB** in gold puff paint, is Jehan.

 

“What are you doing here?” Combeferre asks, startled.

 

“I got your message that you needed bail,” Jehan explains, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. “Well, I guess Enjolras did, but he texted me. He’s at the Town Hall meeting passing out fliers.”

 

Combeferre lets out a long breath in a sigh, reaching up to adjust his glasses. “I forgot that was today. Did you find the Bail Jar okay?”

 

Jehan’s only response is a shrug. “Don’t worry about it. C’mon, I’m breaking you out.”

 

Combeferre shoots a slightly lost look at one of the cops, who assures him, “You made bail. Don’t miss your court date, or it’s--“

 

Combeferre holds up a hand. “I know. Thank you. I’ve never missed a court date.”

 

The officer looks over his shoulder at Jehan, and scowls. It’s probably the gold puff paint. Or maybe it’s the rainbow lettering across the back, proclaiming **BE GAY / DO CRIMES**. Combeferre stifles a laugh behind his hand, and because he feels like it’s easier to be flippant around Jehan, does something stupid, and takes Jehan’s hand in his. “Let’s go home, darling,” he says, loud enough to be heard.

 

There’s a bright, startled look in Jehan’s eyes for a moment, that gives way to eager, sparkling mischief, and Jehan leans up, kissing him on the cheek. “Ooh, scratchy,” he says, squeezing Combeferre’s hand with a wink, leaving Combeferre wondering how he’d also managed to make it feel like he’s being squeezed around the chest, like there’s no air at all around when Jehan smiles like that.

 

“I thought you were avoiding me,” Jehan says bluntly, leading him out of the station. “I know you get off of work at ten, and I waited for hours, but I figured you went out. But then Courfeyrac asked me if I knew where you were, and since I thought you were with him, that’s when we decided to call your work, and they told us you got arrested for inciting a riot! ‘Ferre, you can’t just start riots on your own, what if it got serious and I wasn’t there?”

 

They should drop their hands now, Combeferre knows, and he will. He plans to. As soon as Jehan’s hand twitches, as soon as their fingers make the slightest motion towards pulling away, of being bored. It’ll be soon, it has to be, his own fingers are long, pen-calloused, usually chilly in whatever weather, and Jehan’s are smooth and warm and smaller, but they seem to oddly fit. It’s a game, it’s a ruse, it’s definitely silly to be confrontational like that, but...

 

But Jehan’s hand is utterly still, as if he, too, feels that energy, like this fragile connection cannot possibly survive a single twitch.

 

So maybe Combeferre isn’t crazy.

 

And maybe, just maybe, Courfeyrac isn’t currently a dick.

 

Combeferre realizes too late that his response is too slow in coming, and he’s not really been listening to Jehan in any case. “What?” he asks, as blankly as he feels.

 

Jehan rolls his eyes. “You started a riot at work? That’s all they’d tell us.”

 

“Oh. That.” That, which isn’t part of Jehan holding his hand (which is still! happening! now!). Combeferre blinks, trying to clear his attention when it’s utterly, embarrassingly focused only one, rather innocent part of his own anatomy. “I think the term ‘riot’ is a bit grandiose, Courfeyrac will plead it down to a misdemeanor for sure.”

 

“Is it your first?”

 

“Mm, no, I think this would be the...shit. Third. Oh, no, I hope he can get me off with a fine, don’t three turn into a felony or something?” Combeferre worries at his lower lip.

 

Jehan looks up at him, his stride never slowing, his hand never slacking, as if keeping up the same pace will keep them together. It’s a mile to the college, but neither of them had hesitated, and despite being radically different heights, it’s easy to match pace with Jehan, somehow. “Would you have done it anyway?” Jehan asks, his voice suddenly serious, deep, reminding Combeferre that he’s very much a passionate young man rather than just a silly poet in rainbow shoes. “If you’d thought about it.”

 

There’s silence for a moment. Combeferre hears the woman pleading as the ICE officer had tried to handcuff her to the gurney, hears her try to explain her situation in too-fast Spanish, and he shakes his head. “No,” he admits. “If I’d had time to think about it in advance? No, I’d have just done it smarter.”

 

Jehan beams, as if he’d known the answer all along, and something warm gives a pleased little gurgle in Combeferre’s chest. “What did you do, anyway? Tell me about the riot, I’m so sad I missed it, I love riots.”

 

“You almost died at a riot last year.”

 

“I know, it was great.”

 

“You had half a beer bottle shoved through your stomach, that isn’t great!”

 

“If you’d been there, you’d have pulled it out for me, and then I wouldn’t even have this cool scar. But come on, tell me about the riot, pleeeeease~”

 

Combeferre laughs quietly, and shrugs, hoping his palm isn’t getting too sweaty. “One of my patients was using her cousin’s name and insurance for maternity care. ICE found out, and they tried to deport her eight hours after she’d given birth. Even when I told them she was being treated for possible sepsis, they didn’t listen to me.”

 

“Fucking bastards. What did you do?”

 

Combeferre grimaces. “Probably got myself fired. I tipped the gurney over at him and had a couple of the nurses get the woman out behind me. I thought it would end with assaulting an officer--Courfeyrac says if there’s no--“

 

“If there’s no contact, it’s not a felony,” Jehan pipes in brightly from memory. “He made me learn it, too.”

 

“Yeah. But some of the guys in surrounding rooms heard about it, and before I knew it...”

 

“Riots tend to get away from people,” Jehan says understandingly, and reaches across his own body, giving Combeferre’s arm a reassuring pat. “Did anyone die?”

 

“No, no. I heard it was pretty brief, after they arrested me and a few other guys. They made bail first, though.” They’ve been holding hands for a while, is that all right? “Sorry,” Combeferre says suddenly, not sure why he’s saying it. “I didn’t mean to drag you into...you know. Performative rebellious homosexuality, back there.”

 

“Fuck.”

 

“Mm?”

 

Jehan fumbles left-handed for his phone, unwilling or unable to let go of Combeferre’s still. “I have to text that to myself. That’s a hell of a band name.”

 

“You have a band?”

 

“No, but if I did it would definitely be Performative Rebellious Homosexuality.”

 

“Jehan, seriously, I’m apologizing.”

 

“Yeah, but you don’t need to. You _are_ gay. It’s not performative to be yourself in public.”

 

“But it can be an act of rebellion, if you who you are is proscribed by the ruling class,” Combeferre points out, somewhat mildly. “Or subversion, I suppose, depending on your intended target and goal. For myself, as a cisgendered white-passing man, I think subversion is more likely.”

 

Jehan is quiet for a moment, hand so still in Comebeferre’s it could be made of thin glass, easily shattered but unbendingly holding its shape despite stress. “I like you like this, too.”

 

“Mm? Too?”

 

“Yeah. Talking poetry at midnight is really me, and you know everything, and I love that. But this...this is good, too.”

 

Just like that, Combeferre has an odd little realization. “You know, Jehan...I like the way you speak, too.”

 

“Y-yeah?” Jehan’s hand twitches. Combeferre, in a fit of inspiration, pretends he doesn’t notice, and Jehan’s grip firms on his.

 

“Yes. We’re both educated, intelligent.”

 

Jehan’s face says that he clearly has no idea where this is going. That’s fine. Combeferre doesn’t know if he does, either. “You’re right?”

 

“Yes.” No, he’s not a coward, he can do this, how is it that he can breathlessly launch himself headfirst at officers of an unjust law but be frail on matters of the heart?

 

How is it that he’d have been all right with dying today if it meant protecting a woman he’d never met, but felt abject sadness at the thought of leaving Jehan behind?

 

“It occurs to me that I have little respect,” Combeferre says, picking his words as carefully as soft ripe pears, never letting them stay in his mouth long enough to bruise, “for rules whose function is primarily to preserve outdated concepts of purity and a woman’s worth.”

 

No, not quite, not obvious, too cowardly, he tastes the mistakes like the juices of bruised fruit. “Which is to say,” he says hastily, before Jehan can riposte his clumsy step, “that I think I’ve been waiting for a moment where I can make a decision once it’s been made for me, so I don’t have to worry about your reaction.”

 

“Mine?” Jehan’s voice is a squeak, and his hand trembles in Combeferre’s.

 

_Courage_. How is he so willing to do stupid things all the time except when something good might result? “Is it fine if I ask you out?” he blurts, not entirely gramatically correct. “I’m older than you, and we’re both busy, and you’re very exciting for someone who likes staying at home and reading, but--“

 

Jehan’s hand moves, sending shockwaves through Combeferre’s fingertips, making him jump as if a live wire had been stuck under his skin. The younger man squeezes his hand, and Combeferre is suddenly starkly reminded that Jehan is proud, fierce, and unrelenting when there’s something he believes in. He half-expects some sort of argument, perhaps an explosive declaration, maybe to be swept and dipped and kissed in the middle of a busy boulevard.

 

Instead, Jehan just smiles up at him, and walks a half-step closer. “Can I stay over again?” he asks, answering a question with a question, and the silent looming starlings of anticipation in Combeferre’s mind take flight, a brilliant explosion of color and laughter.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Can I sleep in your bed?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Can _you_ sleep in your bed?”

 

Combeferre laughs, and it’s him that breaks their handclasp, to wrap his arms around Jehan and pull him close, shattering something wonderful and fragile for something alive, warm, growing. “Can I have my red sweater back?” he teases.

 

Jehan wrinkles his nose. “No.”

 

“Then yes.”

 

Jehan beams, and promptly rests his head on Combeferre’s chest, ignoring the flow of traffic on the sidewalk around them. “Courfeyrac is going to be unbearable.”

 

“You think he’ll be bad to _you_?” Combeferre asks, amused. “That bastard is my best friend. I’m going to have to gag him.”

 

“Can you make more beheaded reincarnated flower corpse tea?”

 

“For you,” Combeferre says softly, brushing a blond strand out of Jehan’s face, “I’d behead them myself.”

 

“ _Comberferrus nobilus_ ,” Jehan murmurs, amused.

 

“I’ll need some. I have an early day tomorrow. And so do you.”

 

“You take too many classes.”

 

“So do you.”

 

“I need them for my major!”

 

“What _is_ your major, anyway?” Combeferre finally asks, mystified. “I saw your schedule, and they all looked so fascinating, I couldn’t help but...well. I took a picture, and modified my schedule.”

 

“...Oh. That makes sense,” Jehan says, sounding as if he’s solved a great riddle. “And obeys Planck’s constant.”

 

“Doesn’t everything?”

 

“I hope not. Fuck the rules.”

 

“And fuck Planck’s constant,” Combeferre agrees cheerfully. “So, what is your major?”

 

“”I’m getting my B.S.C.F.F.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“Bachelor in Studies Combeferre Finds Fascinating.”

 

“You’re majoring in Jehanonomics?”

 

Jehan turns a brilliant shade of scarlet, and as what seems like a defense mechanism, steals Combeferre’s glasses off his nose, then presses a kiss to his lips.

 

Then he dances away, leaving Combeferre to follow, laughing.

 

Knowing that at some point, he’ll catch up.

**Author's Note:**

> This is Cari's fault. I was out! I hadn't read Les Mis in a decade! Then she started hitting me with all these headcanons and look where we are!
> 
> (Also I was really politically angry today so I wanted to write about Good Boys Who Hate the System.)


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